


Trapped, Either Way

by ObscureFrost



Series: Beautiful Trappings [1]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Consent, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Fuck to get the Hatch, MegMillan, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, no talking only screaming, no voices in trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28148400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObscureFrost/pseuds/ObscureFrost
Summary: Meg is sick of dying. She hasn't escaped a trial in too long, long enough that she's gotten desperate. The Trapper hasn't gotten laid in long enough he might be willing to negotiate.
Relationships: Evan MacMillan | The Trapper/Meg Thomas
Series: Beautiful Trappings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2062080
Comments: 10
Kudos: 80





	Trapped, Either Way

The groaning storehouse has a strange wind that blows, but only affects the buildings, and not the trees or survivors around it. It’s eerie, and if Meg wasn’t in a strange hellworld, she’d describe it as haunted as fuck. Since she is though, it’s better described as ‘safe enough’. It’s silent, the traps by the window are disarmed and useless, but shards of wood are left scattered on the ground, evidence of someone’s failed attempt to survive. Her blood trails from the window sill towards the generator from where she came in, and though it's running now, the cost hadn’t been worth it. 

The survivors that were in the trial with her were familiar, even if she couldn’t name them. A young Asian woman, a bulky man with no self preservation, and a flashy gambler-looking type. They weren’t bad teammates, and the flashy guy almost made up for his terrible tastes in shirts with the medkit he’d found for her in a chest. 

They’re all dead now. It hadn’t started horribly, but sometime after the third generator, the woman had gotten hooked in the basement, and the two men had thrown themselves in too recklessly to try to save her. She opens her medkit, and starts winding gauze up her injured leg, breathing through her nose.

They must not have had much experience with The Trapper. Or, their quick progress on generators had emboldened them. Either way, not a single one had come out of that basement. Meg finished tying off the end of her strip of gauze, sealing the wound from her trip on the hook shut. She feels bad for not trying harder but, well, she’d been injured, and the shack had been absolutely covered in traps. 

It was the smart move, but not one that sits well in her gut. What sits worse is the hollow, cold fear of dying. It feels like spikes all the way up her spine, and she has to remind herself to breathe. She’s been dying too much lately. The feeling of the Entity’s spike piercing her, the pain of stomach acid eating her organs, the crunch of her spine echo in her ears. 

She doesn’t want to die.

The medkit makes a hollow thud when she drops it, and she clenches her hands at the sound. They’re shaking. She leaves the medkit where it fell; empty, it won’t do much but be a helpful visual aid for someone looking for her. She uncurls her hands, and shakes them out, trying to loosen her nerves enough that the shaking stops. It doesn’t work completely, but it does make her feel better.

Her only hope is the hatch. The Trapper hasn’t closed it yet, and if she’s lucky, or sneaky, maybe she can get to it first. The hatch isn’t in the storehouse, and she avoids the windows as she leaves. The detours around the grassy patches are painfully slow, and she feels naked without the cover of bushes or trees to mask her skulking, but it’s a calculated risk. Better to _maybe_ get seen out in the open, instead of _definitely_ getting caught in the trap she won’t see in the grass. 

Still, she has to move slowly if she doesn’t want to get trapped, and quickly if she wants to find the hatch first. Every moment she wastes, she can feel her chances of escape narrowing, but still she goes slow, risking a jog only behind long walls and trees. The hatch isn’t behind the storehouse, or around the large logs that block off the eastern section of the arena. Dread settles next to the fear. There’s no sign The Trapper has left the shack. Which can only mean one thing.

Her feet move without her input, she lets muscle memory push her numb limbs toward what is surely the end. Her heartbeat grows erratic as she approaches the shack. Fear makes her limbs feel swollen, but she forces herself to round the corner, and peek inside. The Trapper stands over the hatch, and his gaze finds her immediately. Her hands curl into the doorframe, unwilling to run. Instead of closing it like she expects, he turns towards her, head tilted. His hand lifts, and Meg almost bolts, but it’s only his empty hand, his machete still at his side. Two gloved fingers crook at her, beckoning her forward.

That’s new. Excitement blurs out the sharp edges of fear. He doesn’t move towards her, and Meg glances down, checking the doorframe. The trap is closed, useless, but wet blood still clings to the teeth, and she can see where whoever got caught was pulled out and dragged downstairs, leaving a gruesome trail behind. She’s died in the basement before, and it’s worse than the hooks outside. The basement makes the Entity feel closer, crueler even, and her heart aches for her nameless teammates. 

The Trapper doesn’t move, though he does let his arm drop, fingers drumming against his thigh. Meg watches him for a long, long moment, waiting for his patience to snap, to slam the door to her freedom closed. But his patience doesn’t waver, his posture doesn’t change, waiting for her to make the next move.

She lets curiosity overwhelm her good sense, releasing the doorframe, and taking a few stilted steps forward. When he doesn't make a move to attack she chances stepping even closer, within arms reach. Deliberately he looks towards the hatch, then back at her.

Is he asking if she’d like to leave? She nods, slowly, her eyes not leaving his. He holds up a finger, and for a moment she thinks he means ‘wait’. He steps forward, sliding his hand down her arm in a long slow movement. His presence is terrifying, and her heart beats so quickly it takes her five long breaths to realize what he’s implying. He doesn’t move again and Meg looks between him and the hatch.

He’s impossibly big. She’s not sure she’d ever met anyone in her entire life as big as he is. Standing close like this her head barely reaches his shoulder. He could crush her easily, though, that’s one of the few ways he hasn’t killed her yet. And he will kill her if she says no, of course, but he’s letting her think. His hand hasn’t moved further than her arm, three fingers pressed gently against the pressure point in her wrist. 

She’s so tired of dying. 

The fingers on her wrist are warm, and the groan of the hatch sounds like a sweet choir. She looks into The Trapper’s eyes. They’re a deep hazel, and he meets her look evenly. They’ve been in the fog together a long time. He’s wickedly clever about his traps, and ruthless in his chases, but he isn’t sadistic in the way some of the other killers are. He’s graceful in his defeats, doesn’t appear to hold grudges the way some of them do, killing with emotionless efficiency. She isn’t sure she likes how much she knows about him just by being hunted. 

The heat from his hand has quelled her shaking, and the nauseating fear of death has faded just from his patience. From him giving her this choice. The prospect of not meeting the Entity’s claws sings louder than her doubts, and so she looks him in the eye, and nods.

His hand moves almost immediately to the hem of her jersey, pushing it up. He moves in closer, forcing her back, away from the hatch and towards the window, the jersey slips off easily, and as her butt hits the sill of the window, he brings up the machete.

For a split second she thinks this was a mistake, that he’s going to mutilate her, but he pulls at the center of her bra and slices it neatly, leaving only the tiniest cut between her breasts. She reaches out, trying to balance herself on the thin wood, but he grabs her wrist with one hand and pulls it towards himself, and places it on his shoulder.

It’s jarring, but it brings back familiar memories of one night stands from before the fog desperate for human connection and touch. She’d seen this before, touch starved lovers begging to be reached out to, wrapping her so tightly to them she’d found it hard to breathe. Suddenly, she is back in her element, familiarity emboldening her, chasing away the numbness in her limbs.

She reaches out, sitting her full weight on the windowsill, and caresses his neck, careful to keep her touch soft and non-threatening. He caves into her almost instantly, head dropping low enough that the rough texture of his mask brushes her bare shoulder, and it gives her the confidence to explore his skin as his hands cover her breasts, squeezing and pinching in equal measure. She unclips the buttons that hold up his overalls and pushes them down to his hips, hands leaving his skin for barely a moment, returning to explore the muscles of his chest, to squeeze his biceps appreciatively. 

He’s taunt all over, and his muscles resist every motion she makes, but she uses his stiffness to pull herself higher up, and licks her way into a kiss under his jaw. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t push her away, his hands moving to the waistband of her leggings. His stubble is close shaved, but it’s still deliciously rough, and Meg doesn’t stop kissing his neck even as he pulls down her underwear. She steps out of them blindly, never stopping the movement of her hands, enjoying the uneven texture of his skin under her fingers.

He pulls her away for a moment, long enough to kick off his boots and overalls, and for a moment she gets to see the full picture. He looks like he’s been torn apart and put back together again, his skin a patchwork of scarring and poorly healed burns. He steps into her space again, and she can feel the goosebumps on his legs when she drops down to her knees, and gets his dick at eye level. 

It strains at his underwear, boxers doing little to hide his arousal and she kneads at him confidently through the cloth. His fists clench and loosen as she plays with him through the fabric, until one of his palms settles on her cheek. She wonders what his voice sounds like. Looking up at him through her lashes, she meets his eyes, and pulls down his boxers.

His cock is thick. Long too, but the girth is what makes her feel wetness start to gather in her groin. She can barely wrap her hand around him, but she does what she can, and licks at the head of his cock. He groans above her, the hand on her cheek moving to grab one of her braids, the other bracing on the window sill behind her. He’s bigger than any real cock she’s sucked before, rivaling only a few dildos of adventurous girlfriends. 

The musky saltiness makes her mouth water, and God, she’s suddenly aching to be filled. Adjusting her hand, she sinks as deep onto it as she can. It’s nowhere near the root of him, but she compensates with her hand, jacking him in rhythm with her mouth, and as he groans above her she wonders again what his voice is like. Would he beg? Would he be demanding? Order her to move faster? Praise her mouth, or call her filthy names for being so good at this?

Her free hand moves between her legs and she lets herself groan as best she can with a full mouth. Her fingers against her clit feel amazing, and she loses her rhythm when his hips jerk, the hand on her braid pulling her forward, deeper than she can go, and she chokes. He holds her there for a long moment, and she braces her hands against his hips, focusing her will on not gagging. He releases her and she doesn’t even have time to catch her breath as he pulls her upright, and spins her around, slamming her hips into the window frame and pushing her shoulders down. 

It’s so fast she’s dizzy, but he doesn’t let her adjust, pinning her arms behind her back with one large hand, he keeps her forced down. His free hand explores her back, tracing the lines of freckles that run across her shoulders, before running down the length of her spine. He pauses appreciatively at her butt, grabbing a cheek hard enough she whimpers, before sliding between her legs. His fingers explore her entrance and she whimpers at the roughness of his callouses. His index finds her clit, and she whines as he rubs against her, leaving her clit for only a moment to slide his middle finger inside of her before rubbing again.

She wants to writhe, to curl against the pressure, but the grip on her arms stays tight, his weight pinning her against the window so well she can’t do much but surrender to his exploration and she feels trapped in the best way possible. His finger is thick, but she’s so wet he glides inside of her with almost no resistance, and he gives her hardly any time at all before sliding another finger inside of her. He doesn’t set any kind of rhythm, simply exploring her slowly, opening her wide for what comes next.

Despite that she feels dizzy with arousal, her skin feels like it’s been set ablaze, her heart pounding with fear and excitement. His third finger slides in with more resistance, but he doesn’t slow when she whimpers, and the stretch burns in the best way. She can feel an orgasm teasing on the edge of awareness, but it stays out of reach, his fingers calculatingly slow and deliberate. 

What feels like hours, but are surely just minutes pass, and he finally pulls his fingers out of her, giving a parting rub to her clit that leaves her keening for more pressure. He ignores her wiggling, and finally, she feels the tip of his cock. He teases her, the tip rubbing against her opening, and then down and away teasing her clit, before finding her opening again and she moans her displeasure, her impatience.

His hand grabs her braids, pulling her back, and just as she gasps her surprise he shoves his cock into her with a single long stroke. She can’t help but scream, long and elated, as he begins to fuck her with rough abandon. His cock is hot and thick, nothing compared to his fingers, and finally he’s given her a pace, ruthless, and quick. For a brief moment she wonders if she’ll split in two, before losing herself again. He moves like he hunts, and Meg thinks she’s never been so full in her life. 

Her hips ache against the wood, but she can’t bring herself to care in the face of the feeling of being so thoroughly fucked. It reminds her of a marathon, brutal and so, so, rewarding, she wishes she could curse, could sing her praises for the dick that is absolutely melting her from the inside out, but her words meet the air and become empty, meaningless gasps.

She groans instead, and that fills the air just fine, and so do her high pitched pants of pain-pleasure so she makes herself as loud as she can, squirming against him and moaning. He doesn’t let go of her arms, and she can’t shake off his iron grip, helpless to being turned inside out by a beast hiding in a man’s body.

Her orgasm hits her like a truck, burning down her spine, and exploding outward. She groans through it, shaking and crying, and _still_ he doesn’t slow, fucking her as if he hasn’t even noticed it happening. She’s too sensitive thrice over by the time she shakes through the end, but he doesn’t stop. Her legs can’t hold her, her knees giving out, but his hold on her hair and arms keeps her from sliding down, pinning her exactly how he wants her.

He feels like a force of nature, and Meg is no longer in control of her gasping cries, the stimulation driving her to the point of tears, the blood rushing to her head robbing her of any semblance of composure. She feels her own fingers digging into her arms where they are held together, and her core feels like a furnace, blazing hot and sparking from pleasure.

He groans loudly, and the sound pulls at something in her, and she already feels the lighting burn of a second orgasm burning bright in her gut when he drops her hair and his fingers land on her clit. This time she can’t help but scream, so loudly she almost misses The Trapper’s moan, and his rhythm finally, finally falters, and his release follows hers, cock buried to the hilt into her as he cums. 

He stays inside her for a long moment, breathing hard, before he pulls her out of the window, and sets her on the ground. It takes her a long time to come to her senses, long enough that by the time she looks up, he has already pulled on his overalls. He gestures at the hatch.

Business concluded.

That’s probably good enough for him, she thinks, but she’s more of an intimate type. 

She stands, bending in half to collect her pants, very deliberately facing away from him so she can hear how strongly he inhales at the sight of his cum dripping out of her. Straightening, she doesn’t put them on, but instead saunters close to him again. She can’t reach what she wants when he stands straight like he is, and she bends a finger at him demandingly. When he doesn’t acquiesce she glares, and bends her finger again. He does, finally and Meg places a chaste kiss on the corner of his mask’s jagged smile. The audible puff of air he lets escape is either annoyance or fondness, and Meg knows herself well enough to guess that it’s probably both.

She waltzes away before he changes his mind about the hatch, gives him a jaunty salute, and jumps through. Surviving hasn’t felt that good in a long, long time. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) This is part one of a longer OT3 oriented series but I'm leaving it separate so that all you fellow MegMillan shippers will see it. 
> 
> Many thanks to the Dead by Baelight server for inspiration and motivation!


End file.
